Pig Liars
by captainaddams
Summary: In 1923 the full swing of the twenties can be felt: parties, booze, and loose morals. But a string of murders begin to point to corruption in the New York City Police Department. Can James O'Malley find who's behind the cold blooded kills before there's no one left to save?
1. Chapter 1

The phone rang, as it was prone to do. In fact it was the only thing it could do besides deliver bad news faster than a letter. My eyes cracked open and angrily regarded the chirping bell. I hated getting calls in the middle of the fucking night _. What time is it_ , I half questioned looking over at the small analogue alarm clock. Reading at 3:30 am, Smitt better have a fuckin' good reason for calling me.

"Hello?" I growled, annoyed, and tired.

"James? James are you there?" came the frantic high pitched voice. I recognized it immediately, angrily, and regretfully.

"Eileen do you possibly have any idea what fuckin' time it is? By any chanced o you know what I was doing?"

"James I need your help-"

"I'm not helping you Eileen, you took to that lifestyle, no one made ya."

"No, it's not him, it's one of my customers, he's, I think he's after me!"

Smacking my tongue against my teeth, I pulled at the white tank top and loose, sweaty boxers that covered me. "Eileen, you call me at least once a God-damn week about people like this-ya need to get over yourself, no one's after you."

"No, James, I-"

"Good night Eileen." I slammed the phone back down on the receiver hearing the chiming clink.

The ceiling fan creaked around and soft street light illuminated the area right by the windows as it seeped in through the cracked and broken Venetian blinds. The streets were quiet and peaceful. The lull of sound was putting me back to sleep. The occasional car breathed life into the dead street keeping it practically on life support. During the day was a different story.

Cracking various joints in my back and neck, I got up. My apartment was a mess, as it had been for a while. After Eileen left, I never really bothered to clean up. There wasn't much need to. I didn't entertain guests as I once used to. Most of my suits were haphazardly on the floor, ties were over my desk chair, and anything I slept in either was left on the bed or adjacent floor.

A brief, fleeting snapshot of a memory of a Christmas party came forth in my mind. Eileen was under my arm and laughing stupidly at something I had said. I could still feel her velvet red gown under my fingers. Our tree was a deep vibrant green, the walls warm with an amber glow, and the mistletoe above her head was almost as red and crimson as her dress. And she so happy. We were both happy.

Time had surely slipped by since then. My thoughts couldn't leave Eileen alone as I stared around the grey apartment letting more digressing thoughts come to conscious fruition. Where does it go? Time, I mean. Where does anything go when you don't use it? Whether it's time, or dreams, or aspirations or anything. Where does it go? To me, it seems as if it all slips behind you like water through your fingers, and no matter how desperately you grab at it, it eventually falls through.

The headlights of a passing car lit up my solemn face as I sank back down into my bed. My mind couldn't make itself up about her. A part of me absolutely abhorred her leaving and walking out on me. But there was still this small, diamond sized glitter of hope that she would be back again. That she would realize she somehow made a terrible mistake, and I would be here, arms open waiting for her. Although, after all this time it feels as if my arms aren't open to hug but ready to be pinned down to be crucified. She was mine at some point, and I was happy. I was warm and yellow and gay at some point, but it had passed me by like the seven am train.

Now, it was day in and day out of the same thing. The shocking murders that were littered all across this filthy city seemed to never bother me anymore. I've seen men, women, and children mutilated and carved up left and right and yet none of it ever got to me. None of it ever made me gag and have to look away. It was hardly interesting to me anymore. The only thing that was even worth the brain power was pinning the murder with the murderer. It made me think of all the men at the station, and how they slept at night; the ones with wives and children, and nary a bleak thought. What did they dream about?

I fell back asleep with my swirling thoughts rocking me away as I dreamt of nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

The alarm clock went off as usual and I slugged myself out of bed. Running both my hands down my face, I found the energy to lug myself to the shower. I could sleep for a week straight and still be tired. My stupid fuckin' shower hasn't had hot water since last Tuesday. It's Tuesday again. Old man Morse said he would have it taken care of, but he probably forgot, as he's had the track record of.

Cold, skin prickling water fell over me as I scowled. Hearing her voice last night really did it over on me. As I showered I thought about her more and how I had thought I moved on, but apparently my heart had different plans. All thoughts encompassed her. That sweet, tender voice and gentle way she would play with my hair came back to me in that quick, frantic phone call. There wasn't a thing that didn't remind me of her. The white marble of the shower was her skin, the cold water was the rain I would kiss her in, and my lethargy were those warm Sunday mornings where we laid in bed, content.

Why did I hang up on her, and not help her? I always did. I always listened. I always, listened.. My head hung in shame as I ran my hands through my hair. Anger washed over me as quickly as the water did and I slammed my hand against the square marble tiles of the shower with an open palm. Was I angry at her, or just plain depressed? It was hard to discern and I hated myself. Every thought that came of her made me just _hate_ myself more. _Get out of my head Eileen, you left, now leave.._

I wanted to marry her at some point. We were together for long enough; or so I thought was long enough. She thought it wasn't enough. Was anything enough? I couldn't tell. It has been so long that I don't even remember why she left. There was yelling, I remember that, but anything else has faded away into the gray mist of my memory and it left only me alone.

Turning the water off I began to dress for work. My damn suspenders were nowhere to be found so I put on a belt instead. It's such a fuckin' mess in this place I'm surprised I know where anything is. It's just a hoarder's paradise in here. Clothes over there, pajamas here, towels askew, sink filled with beard clippings from shaving; there isn't anything clean about this. Maybe I'll hire a maid or something.

Admittedly, Eileen's call last night was only slightly out of the norm. She called me every now and again asking for "small" favors by her stand point. Mostly rides to different places in the squad car, but I didn't particularly mind. Maybe that's what did it for me. Just seeing her those few times and helping her. Why did I help? What would it do for either of us? What _did_ it do for either of us?

The station was slow today. Mostly a few misdemeanors and a few drunkards. Smitt came up to me at one point during the day, near closing time, asking about certain cases that he had me working on. It wasn't until I left work that I realized I had only seen him at that one point during the day, versus his usual plentiful visits to screw around. John Smitt, aspiring chief of police; he would get the title soon, as our current chief, Lucos, was retiring soon. Smitt had a clean record and was the town hero and favorite. Busting anything from drug deals to speakeasies, he was clean and never had been caught in any of them.

The day was slow and all I heard was the stupid chatter of the secretaries, laughing about bullshit and typing away all at the same time. I could never do that, all that typing and keeping up with all of our shit. The occasional ring of the typewriter would grate against my ears as I wrote, or pinned things up against my bulletin board. The entire department just felt mundane and useless, even though we were the most important department at the moment.

Leaving work, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning to meet it, Harvey Waters was attached to the rest of it. He's a simple man with a wife and kid on the way. His dull blue eyes and small nose were something that contributed to his over-all Polish look. He smiled broadly down at me, only being a few inches taller. I was the shortest man in the office, but we all were fighting over inches, nothing terribly important.

I don't think any of us really got along when it came to practical matters in life. Whether it was what college we went to, or what team we rooted for, the only thing that seemed to keep us together was our fight against crime, but as of late that seemed to be slipping.


End file.
